The footsteps crossed the ceiling. A door above was opened, and gently closed. The figure by the parlour door leaned against it, with sudden weariness. It seemed to be trembling.
The footsteps descended the creaking stairs. They came slowly and rather heavily. The significance of this did not dawn upon Ben till later. All he could think of at the moment was, ‘Will they stop at the bottom, or will they go on?’ The figure leaning against the door was evidently thinking the same thing.
They did not stop at the bottom. They crossed the small space of passage, and left the house. ‘Is that good, or ain’t it?’ wondered Ben. He tossed up in his mind, and the coin came down heads. But he had forgotten to call.
The man by the door evidently thought it was good. A faint sigh came from him, and as he moved away from the door Ben realised for the first time the man’s condition. He was almost collapsing, and a dark stain on the orange handkerchief, unnoticed till now, gave an index to the reason.
‘’Corse—this is the bloke wot orter’ve bin ’ere when we come ’ere!’ Ben thought in an illuminating flash; ‘but the feller on the grahnd comes along first, afore us, and give ’im one, and then ’e ’ops it, and nah ’e’s back agine, wonderin’ wot’s wot!’
Yes, that seemed to fit it. But in that case why was this fellow afraid of Sims? Sims would be his pal. The answer to the question came in another illuminating flash.
‘If ’e don’t know wot’s wot, then ’e don’t know ’oo’s ’oo! And that’s why ’e’s kep’ aht o’ the way!’
Working on this theory, Ben watched the newcomer closely. Watched him pause as he reached the figure on the ground. Watched him stoop. Watched the look of mingled fear and ferocity that sprang into the ugly face, displacing for an instant its bewilderment. Watched him suddenly rise erect, and lean against the wall, and close his eyes. Watched him open them again to stare at the silent watcher.
‘Now ’e’s tryin’ ter figure me hout,’ thought Ben. ‘P’r’aps ’e thinks I done the dead bloke in—and then some’ow got tied hup like this arterwards.’
Strewth! Here was an idea! The fellow who had killed the man on the ground would be on the side of the newcomer. If Ben pretended he was that fellow, he would get the newcomer on his side. And if he pretended that he had got tied up by the man who had just left the hut—that was, Sims—then the newcomer would think Sims was on the side of the man on the ground, and might help Ben against him!
But how was he going to pretend all that in Spanish? It was hard enough to know what it meant in plain English!
He began by nodding his head up and down, and rolling his eyes towards the corpse. The newcomer blinked at him, and suddenly shot out:
‘Quein? …’
Ben nodded harder, to imply that he absolutely agreed. The man seemed vaguely impressed. He raised his hand to his forehead, and spoke again.
‘Que debo hacer?’
Ben nodded harder still. He meant, ‘Certainly, with knobs on.’ The man drew a little closer, and suddenly pointed to the figure on the floor. Now Ben nodded so hard that his head nearly came off. Then he stopped and sniffed. The sniff meant, ‘This is orl I can do, you durned idjit! Carn’t you see? Ain’t yer got no brains?’
The man proved he had. He came close to Ben, peered into his face, fumbled with the gag, and loosened it.
The emotion of finding his mouth free was temporarily incapacitating. Ben tried to speak, but failed. His mouth seemed to have forgotten what mouths did. After swallowing twenty-four times, however, at first singly and then in couples, he felt that he had cleared his throat for action, and he muttered:
‘Thankeo!’
His deliverer shook his head. Ben tried ‘Thanki-vitch,’ but it went no better, and his deliverer still shook his head.
‘No comprendo,’ he mumbled.
‘Sime ’ere,’ whispered Ben; ‘but ’ave a shot at this. Undo me armeo!’
‘Espero—’
‘Yus, we’ll tork abart that later! Undo me armeo! Rahnd me middleo. Fer Gawd’s sake, espero me belteo.’
Something got across. The Spaniard’s fingers began fumbling again, while Ben suddenly looked towards the window. If Sims’s figure were to pass that little space of light …
‘Mike ’asteo!’ muttered Ben anxiously. ‘Wot’s the matteo?’
Something was clearly the matter. The Spaniard’s fingers were very weak. All at once, Ben forgot his own sorrows and became acutely conscious of the Spaniard’s. Lummy, he did look ill! Tottering, he was!…
The belt grew looser.
‘Esta asi bien?’ gasped the Spaniard.
‘Nigi novi novgrod,’ replied Ben, trying to be matey.
Then next moment he had slipped his arms out of the belt, and the Spaniard had sunk down on to the floor.
‘’Ere, stick ter it, me lad!’ whispered Ben. ‘I’ll be with yer in a miniteo. I’ll bet yer ain’t as badeo as yer lookeo. Got a knife?’
The Spaniard did not reply.
‘Oi!’ muttered Ben. ‘Knifeo! Wotcher call it—sirocco? Thing yer cuts cheeseo! Oi!’
But the Spaniard was not interested. Something had happened in his throat. He lay quite motionless.
‘Gawd, I b’leeve ’e’s gorn!’ thought Ben.
He fought a sudden emotion. It was silly, of course. The fellow was ugly and a wrong ’un … But it’s funny how, sometimes, it gets you.
25
How Mr Sims Killed Ben
There was no doubt about it. The little, ugly faced Spaniard was dead. After being attacked he had remained hidden away somewhere, and now he had staggered back to perform a last strange service to a fellow-sufferer before answering his final call. His life had not been too good. But neither had it been too easy. Our worst acts are generally the sum of our greatest difficulties, and possibly Fate in a kindly mood had sent him tottering back to commit an act that might stand in his stead when his case was being considered.
But what happens after we are silent and still is beyond our knowledge today, as it was beyond Hamlet’s. All we know is what happens before. Ben, in his ignorance of the future and of its value, regarded the ugly faced Spaniard who had loosened his cords and then died with exonerating sympathy. Your nature goes with your face, and you didn’t make your face. Well, there you are! Who’s to blame?
Suddenly Ben realised, in a panic, that he was doing nothing. He must get busy! Sims might return any minute! Feverishly he began to struggle out of his cords, and while he struggled he was visited by some strange thoughts. He did not let the thoughts interfere with his progress; this formed a sort of running accompaniment.
One strange thought was this. He was in a room with two dead men, and both of them had helped him. It almost seemed as though people were born on condition that they did not assist Ben while they were alive, but as soon as they died and the oath no longer held, they did what they could. One dead man had freed his arms and the other had scratched his nose. ‘Wunner if I’ll ’elp hennybody arter I’m gorn?’ wondered Ben. ‘Barrin’ worms!’
Another strange thought came in the form of a tune. Ben only knew three tunes well. One was ‘Three Sailors of Bristol City.’ Another was ‘Three Blind Mice.’ He liked that one; it seemed to go with cheese. (Of course, you don’t count ‘God Save the King’.) The tune that came to him now was ‘Ten Little Indians.’ At first he didn’t know why. Then the reason dawned upon him lugubriously. The ten little victims grew less and less. His own little deader boys were growing more and more!
‘I ’opes they stop at two,’ he thought.
And hastily set aside the reflection that things generally went in threes.
He was free now all but his feet. There were some knots there he didn’t seem able to manage. He didn’t know whether it was because they were difficult knots, or because his fingers seemed all thumbs.
‘Afore yer died, Charlie,’ he murmured to the Spaniard, ‘I arst yer if yer ’ad a knife. Mind if I look?’
He bent down. He could
do that. His hands played gingerly over the limp form and suddenly yelped. He thought the form had pinched him.
But it wasn’t a pinch, it was a prick. With hopefully thumping heart, he felt about for the safe end. He found it, and drew slowly from the tumbled clothing a gleaming thing.
‘Strewth! ’Is sirocco!’ he blinked.
It was a bit of all right!
‘Seems as if yer carn’t do enuff fer me, Charlie,’ he muttered. He did not realise how much more Charlie was going to do for him in a few minutes. ‘I like you better’n the hother one, and that’s a fack. Charles II’s the lad fer me!’
He had to go on talking. It was the only way to prevent himself from fainting.
He cut the final cords with Charles II’s ‘sirocco’. Now he was free! He lifted a leg in triumph, and the other gave way under him.
He had hardly recovered from this shock before he received another. There was a sound outside the window, and Sims went by.
Ben had been sitting. Now he went flat. If Sims turned his head and, looked in, it would be the end! The two dead men would be augmented to three! Fortunately, Sims did not turn his head. His mind happened to be in the room immediately above. But when he had passed the window, and was turning into the hut, Ben suddenly came into his mind, and he walked to the parlour door.
Ben, on the other side of the door, fought a violent desire to bellow with fear. He remembered that he couldn’t always control the desire when it came, and he found himself hugging Charles II as though for protection.
The door handle rattled, but the door did not open. Only Sims’s voice entered.
‘I’ve not forgotten you, Ben,’ purred the voice. ‘I’ll be down in two or three minutes—and then I’ll look in and say good-bye.’
What was that? Look in and say good-bye?…
The footsteps resounded again. Up the creaking stairs. Into the room above. Half-way across the ceiling. Pause …
‘I gotter do somethink,’ thought Ben.
He disengaged himself from Charles II with scarcely a shudder. Queer how one got used to dead people! A little more of this, and he’d qualify for a grave digger. Live people were much more trouble … The steps began to resound above again.
‘Wot abart standin’ by the door,’ thought Ben; ‘and stickin’ the sirocco in ’im as ’e hopens it?’
He visualised the operation. It wasn’t nice. Besides, he felt so groggy he doubted whether he could be quick and strong enough for it.
‘Wot abart pertendin’ ter be dead, and then, when ’e bends hover me, gettin’ ’im hunder the chin?’
That didn’t seem nice, either.
And then came the staggering idea. It was so staggering that, for quite five seconds, Ben just sat frozen with it. And they were not ordinary seconds, such as you are passing while you read. Each second carried life or death. When they had gone, Ben rose, and turned towards the dead Spaniard. The idea still froze him, but his limbs had begun to respond to it because his brain could not find any flaw in it. Will-power followed brain and ignored emotion. Hardly realising that he was doing more than working out a stupendous theory in his mind, he raised the body of the Spaniard, and began to draw it upwards towards the chair.
Somehow he got it into the chair. He never knew how. He swore, when considering the matter in retrospect, that the body helped him, and in reference to this astonishing claim it must be recalled that Ben was developing a theory that men only assisted him to live after they themselves were dead. You and I—receiving perhaps more assistance in life—cannot accept Ben’s theory. It is probable that Ben got the dead Spaniard into the chair because, when men are desperate, they often confound all logic. What is your best pace for the mile? Put a hungry tiger behind you, and you will beat it.
Once the Spaniard was in the chair, the rest was comparatively easy. While the footsteps still resounded in the room above, Ben tied the helpless limbs, and gagged the mouth that was already beyond the power of speech. ‘’Ope yer don’t mind, Charlie!’ he mumbled once, partly in response to an unnecessarily worried conscience, and partly because the Spaniard’s spirit, now escaped from the useless flesh, might be lurking in some dark corner with disapproval.
Well, if it was, the risk had to be taken. The Spaniard’s spirit was less of a menace than Mr Sims’s flesh! Working feverishly, Ben completed his gruesome job, the final act of which was to pull off the orange handkerchief that had bound the hanging head.
And, as he did so, the footsteps above crossed the ceiling for the last time, and began, slowly and heavily, to descend.
Ben dived for the table, and crept under it.
The footsteps on the stairs grew nearer and nearer. Twice they paused, and if Ben had been in a condition to wonder about anything save his own skin he might have wondered why these pauses occurred, and why the steps were so slow and ponderous. Yet, after all, the cause of the second pause seemed obvious enough, for this pause occurred when the bottom of the stairs had been reached.
But why was it so long?
It seemed interminable. Once or twice there was a faint sound, as though something were being put down or moved; but to Ben, quaking under the table, the sound was indecipherable, and it was not till later that he divined its cause.
‘P’r’aps ’e’s fergot me,’ thought Ben.
The next instant, the thought was proved wrong. The door began to open.
Ben watched the bottom of the door. This was all he could see. It came towards him, opening inwards, till the advancing corner was only about three feet away. Then two boots appeared. Large boots, covered with dust. And the bottoms of the trousers, chopped off just below the knees by the edge of the table.
The moment that followed was agonising. Sims, standing in the doorway, was looking at Ben’s substitute. The chair to which the substitute was bound stood in shadow, for the moonlight had not yet reached that corner of the room, but the sharp silver line that marked the boundary of the moon’s progress on the floor was only a few inches away from the chair legs, and if Sims waited he would see the Spaniard revealed, like a statue unveiled …
‘Dead, Ben?’ inquired Sims’s voice.
Ben’s heart thundered in reply.
‘From your position, I’m inclined to believe that you are!’ went on Sims. ‘You’re a crafty fellow, Ben, but if you were alive I doubt whether you could hang your head in such a realistic fashion. And they seem to have knocked your head about a bit, too. Very rough of them, very rough! I’d speak to them about it if I were seeing them again. But, unfortunately, I won’t be seeing them again. Meetings and partings, eh? Life is made up of them.’
He paused. Ben kept his eyes fixed on the boots, imploring them mutely to turn and disappear. They did not turn. They came forward a step.
‘I wonder, Ben, whether I’ve told you too much?’ said Sims. ‘Perhaps I have. And perhaps, when Greene and Faggis return, you may pass on what I’ve told you to them? Yes, I think I’d better make quite sure you’re dead, eh?’
The boots advanced again. They were now up to the table. Impulsively, Ben raised his knife a few inches.
‘Another step, and I’ll pin yer ter the grahnd with me sirocco!’ he thought, trembling violently.
The boots continued to move. He stretched forward to strike. Then the boots grew dim as a cloud began to cross the moon’s surface. The floor became heavy and shadowy once more.
‘On second thoughts, I don’t think I’ll go too near you, Ben,’ murmured Sims. ‘Now that the moon has gone in I can’t see you very distinctly, but that rope round your legs doesn’t look too good to me. Suppose you’re not properly bound, and are waiting till I reach you to spring up at me? I’ve had that trick played on me before. No, I’ll shoot you, instead. From here. It’ll be safer.’
Ben laid his knife down and raised his moist hands to his ears. He was sweating hard, and he did not think he could bear to hear himself shot.
There was no sound, however. Sims worked quietly and with quiet weapons.
A sudden flutter of the already limp form in the chair was the only sign that a bullet had posthumously entered it.
‘Good-night, Ben,’ said Mr Sims.
A moment later, the bottom of the door swung to again, and Ben was alone.
He lay quite flat for two minutes, while perspiration ran all over him. He was as still and as limp as the Spaniard who had just performed his last service for him. Then, suddenly, he raised his head.
Hoofs! Hoofs on the road! Growing fainter and fainter and fainter!
26
Life Grows Worse and Worse
The sound of the hoofs brought Ben out of his lethargy. Forgetting he was under a table he sprang to his feet, and the resulting impact produced another form of oblivion. When he recovered, the hoofs were no longer audible.
Now he crawled out, and stood up carefully. Speed was vital, but so was caution. Another knock like that and he wouldn’t have any head left—and now, if ever, was the time he wanted it!
He walked dizzily to the door. The moon emerged from the clouds again as he opened it, and a little patch of light streamed through a small window in the passage. It revealed the emptiness of the passage, and the bottom stair. Ben took a breath, and turned towards the bottom stair.
There should have been no need to take that breath. Five people who might have murdered him, three of whom had actually attempted to do so, no longer threatened him. Sims, Greene and Faggis were out of the house, and the other two were out of the world. But stairs, particularly if they were wooden and uncarpeted, always had an unnerving effect upon Ben. They were in the same category as corners and cupboards, and just as liable to spring surprises. And then these were foreign stairs. You couldn’t trust anything foreign, never mind what it was!
There was another reason, however, why Ben took that breath, and why he ascended with such palpitations. The memory of the slow, heavy steps he had heard upon them twice seemed to fit somehow into the sound of the hoofs, like pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, and he didn’t like the picture they made.
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